Remember My Name
by T.S. Atlas
Summary: The Glorious Executioner takes the stage, giving all those who came a show that they would not soon forget. Why he became a Champion, why he is himself, why everyone will remember the name Draven.


_**A/N:** _I would like to dedicate this piece to my good cousin, Jai, who I love as if he were my own brother. One of his favorite characters is Draven, and, getting back into writing, I wanted to do what I always do, get back into my style. I wanted to make this character my own without taking away from his lore, and, hopefully, you can see that here and see the Draven that I have created by taking a different perspective on him. As always, enjoy, and feel free to favorite or leave a review, if you would be so kind.

Remember My Name

Strength begets strength. In Noxus, Strength was everything. Power, status, survivability. By law, all citizens must serve in the Noxus military for a period of at least six years. It is a way for the people to support their nation by offering up their strength, their sweat and blood. But for those that are weak, this compulsory serving serves a different purpose. The strong bleed in service for Noxus, but the week are not so fortunate. Perhaps they will become strong in service for Noxus, will become useful for it, but this six year sentence is nothing more than a way to cull the weak from the true citizens of Noxus, from those who deserve to live.

After all, it is only the strong who survive.

His eyes opened, water dripped from his face into the basin. His hand went to his wineskin, his name sewed on with golden thread. He drank the carmine substance heartily. He could hear the crowds outside, the restless stomping of feat. He pulled at his long mustachio, what could be seen as his signature feature, as he began to walk down the empty hallway, his axes strapped to his back. At the end of the dark hallway, the light was blinding.

And for a second, he was no longer in that hallway, no longer the Glorious Executioner, but rather, a soldier. Around him lay bodies. Allies, enemies? Who knew? All he knew is they weren't fit to survive battle. They were weak. Would anyone shed a tear? He stood from the mess and walked away. He was with them, he fought with them. But their faces blurred to him, their names forgotten, and the gruesomeness of the scene became all too familiar, to the point that it no longer bothered him.

He felt his heart race as he charged forward, he felt alive as he swung steel and tasted iron as the blood splattered across his lips. But whenever he would turn around, he would see them, the bodies of both Noxian and Demacian soldiers. And he would turn and continue forward, knowing he was strong, that he had the right to go on.

Once he finished his service, he opted instead in a different direction. His brother stayed in the military, rising to the rank of general, he would go on to change Noxus. He wasn't as grand as his brother, if you could believe it. He was simple.

During his service, his actions went unappreciated. They said he was too theatrical. To him, however, such grandness was only natural. He lost himself in every fight, his viciousness was what drove him, what made him, him.

His eyes opened as he stepped into the arena as he threw his hands in the air much the crowd's excitement. He wore little more than leather and cloth with the bulk of his body exposed, showing off his muscles and tattoos and scars. They came here for him, and he made sure they would see him. He didn't wear blacks, but rather bright reds and yellows. As he gestured toward the crowd, their voices rose more and more.

As he made his way to the center of the sandy field, his eyes finally fell on the faces of his assistants. A total of nine, they were criminals, rappers and thieves and murderers. They squirmed at his devilish grin. All but one. He looked him in the eye and did not falter in their interlocked gaze. But this just made his grin widen sinisterly. The way this particular man was, the size of his muscles, the way he held himself up, the cold hardness in his eyes. He was a soldier.

A lustfulness glazed over his eyes, one that could only be satiated with crimson. The eye contact with the once-was-soldier never broke as he took the axes from his back into his hands. He was going to have some fun, this time. He motioned for one of the guardsmen on the outskirts of the field to prepare the criminals. Nodding and calling for other guards, three of them went to the criminals, unlocking their fetters and unbinding their hands. With all nine men now standing, or at least, to the best of their abilities, the guards started towards the hallway that he had entered through.

With his hand, he stopped one of the guards, and all three looked to him, not leaving without his dismissal. He allowed them to leave, but not until after he gave them a single order. Leave your weapons.

Two swords and a spear were laid before the nine criminals. The once-was-soldier bent down, picking up the spear, while two other men hesitantly grabbed up the swords. The other six shrinking slowly behind the three armed men.

Like a lion, his voice came out as a proud roar that everyone could hear. "LET ME HEAR YOU SCREAM!"

It was not the prisoners who responded, but rather, the crowd of onlookers who raised their voices loud and into the air. The nine at the center backed slowly together, as if they were being surrounded, and yet, it was only the one man before them that proved to be their concern.

He was tall, muscled, with madness in his eyes and a devilish grin. He took a quick step forward, stomping the ground and growling. The man was intimidating enough, but with bloodlust in his eyes, he was an animal, a real monster. He enjoyed spilling blood, and this was his game.

One of the men broke down, running from the group with tears in his eyes, shrieking and stumbling over himself as he ran, ran out of fear.

Taxing his axes in hand, he began to twirl one. The eight just looked at him while he wound up, the runner not bothering to even turn back. The crowd was loud, but soon silenced as he the axe left his hand as he threw it in the direction of the runner.

They were prisoners, and he was their executioner. But, he liked to make a spectacle of this gruesome event. But, there was an interesting twist. If you could escape, you are free. But, the executioner had a record. No one escapes. At least, not alive.

The crowd erupted as the axe found its target, the runner falling to the hard earth, lifeless. The executioner raised his hands in success, feeding the crowd as he turned towards them. He couldn't hear the footsteps as one of the men with the swords ran towards him. The crowd was far too loud for him to hear anything but them. But he had expected it. After all, he was an entertainer, a natural showman, and he wasn't without his theatrics. He didn't hear the man approach him, but he already knew he would. He spun just as the man reached him, dodging his mad swing and flourishing his own axe. And like that, it was over.

No one saw the slash, just the spin he made to dodge the downward slash followed by his rush forward, ending with him posing low to the ground, the blade of his axe wet with red as he smiled, staring right at the once-was-soldier. The runner, behind him, was still for a while. His head hit the floor first, followed by his decapitated body. The crowd went wild.

And so did he.

He rushed madly at the seven, his eyes locked with the soldier, gripping the spear tightly. His axe was spinning, and he was laughing, his eyes crazed and wild, he came at them not as a man but as a demon thirsty for blood.

And when he was but three strides from his target, his eyes snapped to another, catching the gaze of the other armed man. His eyes filled with fear, his pupils dilated until they looked like saucers. His steel was already shaking after seeing the first two men fall, but as he stared into the eyes of the executioner, he dropped his sword, raising his arms above his head as if to shield himself.

The axe slashed through his arms, burying itself deep into his shoulder, halfway cutting him in two. And without breaking stride, the executioner continued, having no trouble of reclaiming the axe from deep within the third man.

The soldier held his ground, but the other five ran. As the fourth turned, trying to make his way in the opposite direction of the mad axe man, a quick slash ripped his back apart, and he too fell dead. He was quicker than all of them, but the way they stumbled made it all the more easier.

The fifth man was limping. An old man, pathetic in all regards, the executioner's axe crushed his skull in a single blow. The sixth man didn't make it much further. His legs were swept out from underneath him by the executioner's Stand Aside, having thrown his axes horizontally to separate the man's legs. He couldn't help but to chuckle at the way the man fell. He would let this one bleed out as thanks.

Sweeping the bloodied blade from the ground, he turned his focus not to the next man, but the eighth, the one who made it the furthest, past the first's body. He could hear nothing but the deafening crowd, his hands shook excitedly as his heart raced. He spun his axe, faster and faster, unleashing Whirling Death, his axe tearing apart the ground as it raced past the seventh man, surprising him as he fell to the floor, and it went straight for the eighth man.

The axe ripped him apart, his body falling in two vertical slices. And as if on their own, they halted their forward motion, returning back along the same path of destruction. He caught the axe, blood splattering across his figure.

And as he approached the seventh, lying upon the ground, shaking so violently that he could not even will himself to rise, he turned to the once-was-soldier, and smiled. He stood there, spear at the ready. Finally, it was just the two of them. He brought his axe down, silencing the remaining one at his feet.

Now it truly begins.

The once-was-soldier stood crouched, spear at the ready, sweat upon his dark brow. He knew not to come between a monster and its prey, but now, the executioner had him in sights, but this time, there were no others to avert his attention. It was just the two of them, just as the executioner planned.

Looking at him, the executioner saw that his brave demeanor had crumbled. He spun his axe, swagger in his step as his ever smiling lips curled even further up sinisterly.

After all, the crowd was here for him. He was the Glorious Executioner. Who was this man? This once-was-soldier, reduced to a criminal, everyone was here to watch him die. Everyone was here to watch him kill this man. He would be sure to give them a show.

"Say, do me a favor," he spoke, his voice full of pride. The executioner halted his axe, holding it tightly in his hand. "Say my name!" He charged at the man, slashing down, the man jumping backwards, stumbling and falling to the ground. He picked himself up swiftly, but no sooner was the executioner on him, swinging wildly.

The axe was heavy, but he swung it with such ease, his bloodlust making him move forward with reckless abandon, continuing to slash. And with each blow, the man felt the strength behind such attacks recoil within his arms as he tried desperately to defend against his onslaught. Step, slash, step slash, his movements in a pattern, simple yet so destructive, he struggled with just being on the defensive. But his guard could not hold.

The executioner went at him vigorously, the sounds of the crowd around him were like drums of war in his ears, but to him, there was no one but the two of them here. Step, slash, step, slash, but then he took a step, then another, ramming his shoulder into the man, tackling him and sending him to the ground.

He raised his axe high, much to the crowd's approval, and brought it down. The man on the floor rolled out of the way just in time. He fought to get to this feet, but the executioner was relentless. It took but a single swing.

He hadn't the time to guard the attack, barely being able to raise the spear up in time, the heavy strike destroyed the shaft and continued on, striking him across his chest, leaving a large gash but not deep enough to be seen as immediately fatal.

He was panting, but the executioner barely broke a sweat.

"Say my name, damn you!"

He gave a mad slash, only for his prey to duck past him, running as quick as he could to retrieve one of the swords beside the dead criminal that wielded it. The executioner was on him in a heartbeat. Having grabbed the hilt of the sword, the man turned swiftly, swinging the blade.

Steel kissed steel, and the sound reverberated within the two men, only for it to be lost in the echo of cheers and excitement. The two felt each strike, sparks flying with each clang of metal.

But the executioner was strong. And the once-was-soldier was weak. His arms could not hold the blade any longer, and with one decisive strike, this proved true as the sword flew from his hands. The axe was raised above his head before he could even realize he lost his weapon, and it came down, opening another gash, this one deeper the last.

The man fell, feeling the warmth escape from his body. The executioner standing above him, fury in his eyes,

"SAY MY NAME! SAY MY NAME!"

Darkness shrouded his vision, his eyes closing on their own, and like that, the man was gone.

"SAY MY NAME DAMNIT!"

And the crowd erupted in cheer, chanting the name of the victor, of their Champion. "DRAVEN! DRAVEN! DRAVEN!"

Yes, this is who he was. Draven, the glorious executioner. His path was marked in crimson, his hands used to such gruesome work. The voices called to him, all around him, all of them calling his name. They knew him, they knew Draven.

"DRRRRAAAAAAAVVVVVEEEEEEENNNNN!" he roared, the crowd exploding into applause and cheers, the chants of his name rising ever more into the heavens.

They would not soon forget his name. He would be remembered, for his legacy, for his name. He would not die forgotten. People would chant his name through the ages. He became more than an executioner, he became a Champion, and at the Institute of War, he would play this blood sport that was all so familiar to him.

He would play, and he would win, further building his legacy, spreading his name to more and more all across Valoran. He was Draven, and no one would forget who he was.


End file.
